


Las Vegas Lingerie

by viggorlijah



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Crossdressing, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-01 19:34:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viggorlijah/pseuds/viggorlijah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Las Vegas, no-one cares what you're wearing underneath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Las Vegas Lingerie

It's Las Vegas. Who the fuck cares? You wake up and you've still got your panties on, then what the hell kind of night did you have. A bad one. And Greg likes panties.

He likes the ones which are all lace, a T-strip of pretty lace covering smooth skin, he likes the ones that are black lycra with snappy elastic, low-slung on hips, the ones with names of the week? Oh yeah, those ones are good. With the little bows in the middle and the way they rise up over the girl's ass, down to her thighs, everything hidden under white cotton. Yeah, he likes those too. If they're not wearing panties, he's disappointed.

But only a little bit. Because then he can slide right in. And hey, there's always the next girl.

Because Greg likes girls. He was fifteen when Angie Tan let him slip his hand down the waistband of her navy-blue school uniform, that skirt with the pleats, down to the little bumps of elastic on her hips and under. Oh yeah. Angie Tan's mom bought those five-packs of undies, and Greg still remembers that it was a Thursday. A Thursday when he got down under the kitchen table with chemistry textbooks spread out on top, and Angie's knees parting hesitantly then tightening around his head, and Thursday. Thursday was good. Because Angie's mom didn't come back till 5 pm, and Thursday tasted salt and sweet and heat and all the lines and dips of Angie gasping and grinding against his tongue.

Thursdays rocked.

So Greg maybe has a thing for panties. It's not a fetish. He's seen fetishes at the lab. Giant baby bottles, the guy with the hundred left shoes stinking of sweat and spunk under his bed, the guy with the sheep - yeah, and taking a sexual assault evidence kit off a live sheep hadn't been easy - and of course, Lady Heather. God bless, Lady Heather and her "Friend of Gil Grissom's discount" - Greg knows he's a kinky little bastard. But he doesn't have any fetishes. He's more of a buffet guy.

But man, panties. They're just so damn pretty. And the way they stretch over their hips? Curve over their asses? Or nestle between - he likes to slide his fingers under a thong, slide it down, make it maybe twang a little before he gets down. Most expensive clothes per square inch of cloth, and worth every penny.

Guys don't get that. They get tighty-wighties, maybe silk boxers or those boxer-briefs with stripes. Bannana hammocks if they're flaunting it. Greg's are all charcoal grey and snug, and they look good, but no-on's spent a lot of time on them. Girls are big on getting them off by then.

It's a bad scene if it goes all the way through to your skin. Usually Greg can get away with changing his pants, but this time he fell down the stairs in Creepy House #37, and landed in a pile of decomp. Grissom is pissed at him which Greg thinks is kinda unfair seeing it's Greg's ass that's sticky with dead guy juices, and that's just disgusting, but apparently CSIs should look for hidden tripwires and crazy-ass starving cats before going into a suspicious house.

Greg grabs a shower and towels off, and it's when he's digging through his locker for pants, he realises he brought a whole set of clothes. Everything but underwear. And there's no amount of money that will make him pull on those again. They're evidence now. Which makes him glad they're fresh from the laundry.

But that doesn't solve this problem. Commando isn't - well, Greg's gone commando before. But not at the lab. That's just wrong. That's like walking around with a hard-on in church.

He roots around at the back of his locker hoping for something. A pair of shorts, maybe a handkerchief he can cleverly knot? Something.

What he comes up with is last Saturday's panties. Rolled up inside his toiletries kit, next to the hair gel and strip of condoms. He pulls them out and looks at them for a moment.

Black, plain. She played volleyball, some kind of tournament. Dancing and drinking water and totally sober when she pulled him over into the back room and peeled off her panties and straddled him. Great thigh muscles.

He glances around, then sniffs them. Better than decomp.

But if it's the kind of night when you trip over an insane cat and fall into a pile of goo that when you're bending over pulling on a pair of women's panties, that's when a senior field agent will walk in and wolf whistle.

"Like the lace, Greg. This a new thing?"

Greg yanks the towel down and glares at Warrick. They're snug. There's no room in there for him, but he's not going to give Warrick the satisfaction of seeing him flinch.

Okay, the lace is kinda cutting off circulation. And scratchy. Really scratchy. Maybe if he shifts just a little bit.

But Warrick's got that raised eyebrow thing going, that cool calm look that makes Greg feel like a dork, even though he's heard all the stories about Warrick being Urkel Jnr.

"I ran out of underwear," he admits.

Warrick laughs and turns around and Greg can finally shove his hand down and tuck everything in, yanking them down his ass even more so finally he can breathe, and that damn lace stops itching. He wriggles a little and it's not that bad.

He pulls his pants on and a new t-shirt. Every time he moves, the panties shift. There's a bite where the elastic is too tight, and then there's that shiver of lace against his ass if he leans a little back. It's *interesting*.

Hodges calls him Gretel for the rest of shift, and Catherine runs her fingers along his belt with a slight smile, but no-one else says anything.

Greg almost forgets about the panties. He stumbles home and dumps everything in the laundry basket and falls asleep. He doesn't dream of anything.

The way work goes, laundry piles up and gets done two weeks later. He shoves the panties in with his boxers, and forgets about them completely.

Janet is a paramedic. Janet is a redhead. Janet wears polka-dot panties with a push-up bra and she unbuttons her shirt slowly while she's riding Greg. He likes a girl who can multi-task. And sex in the back of an ambulance? Way hotter than he thought it would be, even if the gurney is all plasticky on his naked back.

Janet pulls off of him and Greg would protest, but she's pulling off her panties and wadding them up, and then pushing them into his mouth, one firm shove and Greg tries to spit them out but she grabs his wrists, pins him down and sinks on to him all the way in one move. And when Greg breathes in, he smells her and tastes her and she's riding him and he can't breathe and he'd moan but he's gagged. And he likes it. Man, he likes it.

"You can keep those," Janet says afterwards. She's tying her hair up, patting herself down and looking totally together except for the shine on her lips. Greg's still in the post-orgasm haze and the panties are looking a little chewed after that last twist she did with her hips.

He can't quite explain why after she gets out, her phone number on a post-it in his wallet, he takes off his pants and pulls hers on. Just. They're polka-dots, man. Little red and pink polka-dots with tiny white lace on the edge and damp from her and him, and he's hard again which makes tucking things away even harder.

So Greg has a thing for panties. It's not a big deal. Just that pair of black hipsters and Janet's polka dots tucked away in his underwear drawer. He doesn't go out and buy more. And he doesn't start stealing them from the women he's with. And he doesn't wear them again.

Not all the time.

Just Thursdays.

Hodges hits home with his girlfriend and celebrates by asking all the lab-techs out for beer and breakfast. Okay, maybe he doesn't exactly ask, but it was Archie who burnt the mix CD for the night, Jacqi who recommended the restaurant and Mia who told Hodges the hard brutal truth about his breath, and Greg calls it a team effort. He told Hodges that trick with the alphabet, and when Hodges scowls but pulls out his wallet to pay, Greg smirks in satisfaction.

One beer becomes two becomes seven all lined up in a row and Hodges drools when he's asleep, and Mia is just way too hot not to try something on. "Are you wearing panties?" Greg asks.

She takes a swallow from her beer and puts it down carefully, precisely in the center of her beermat. "Are you?" she answers.

"Yeah," says Greg. "It's Thursday, right? I'm wearing panties."

He blames the eighth beer on why he ends up showing Mia his panties in the women's bathroom of the restaurant.

But Mia looks really good with her hair down and man, she has a great rack. Her breasts are just beautiful, works of nature and Greg wants to quote Song of Solomon, but he can't remember anything past the line about little fawns. Not when Mia's hair is swishing round his face and his mouth is against her breasts, those beautiful breasts.

"Sanders, if you say a word, I will pin those panties on the department board," she hisses next shift.

He holds up his hands in surrender. "A gentleman never tells, Mia."

She scowls. "You talk about your sex life all the time. We have to beg you to shut up."

"Ah, but not in the lab," he points out. "I respect the professionalism of this lab. No matter how many people here I sleep with."

"You've slept with - no don't tell me. I want to be able to work with these people without thinking about -" she shudders. "I am never going drinking with you guys again."

Greg winces. He hasn't actually slept with anyone else in the lab, and there is a pretty good reason for that. Mornings after. They look at each other for a while and then nod simultaneously. "Coffee next time?" he offers and Mia smiles slightly.

"Not on a Thursday," she says warningly.

Greg had forgotten that part of the evening. Beautiful breasts are so much a better memory than yanking his jeans down to let Mia slide her hand over his panties in a tiny bathroom.

He is so going to be Mia's bitch for a while. That or get used to Gretel.

Later, he's going through his thing with Lisa, Lisa-the-kindergarten-teacher, Lisa, lovely Lisa, who has the prettiest lips and a little black switch she keeps under her pillow, and Lisa who gets pissed off if Greg isn't suitably attentive. Which is hard to do when you're studying for CSI Level 2 and working double shifts because you're the youngest agent. Lisa spends a lot of time with those pretty lips pursed and Greg on his knees begging.

He's just racking up those kink points.

So Warrick gets married, and Nick's kidnapper's daughter offs herself, and there's something going down and when Greg catches on, it's a mess. Lady Heather's daughter dies and Grissom takes three days of leave. Sara slams doors and Greg tries to say something to her, but she just walks off.

He can't really blame her. He still gets a twinge when Mia leans over in a v-neck, and working all day next to someone you're into has gotta be hard.

Grissom comes back with bruised knuckles and Sara takes three days of leave. The next day, Grissom takes urgent leave again.

"Stretched thin," Nick remarks at the shift meeting.

"No-one else is allowed to have sex for 72 hours," Catherine says dryly.

Warrick looks up from his notes. "In the labs at least," he says, adding "Greg."

Greg holds up his hands defensively. "Hey, I never -"

"You got something to tell us, Greggo?" Nick asks, amused.

"Besides the panties," Warrick drawls.

"Does everyone know about the panties?" Greg asks finally.

"You can work the hit and run," Catherine decides. "Seeing it's not a Thursday."

Greg is so not paying for Mia's coffee next breakfast.

They make it through the week and Sara and Grissom come back to work like nothing's happened. "Took them long enough," Greg remarks to Nick when they're photographing a suicide-murder next shift. "What about you, Nick? Who's the lucky lady for you?"

Nick lowers his camera. "I thought you knew," he says, and the note of surprise is enough that Greg looks up from the blood splattered bathtub.

"Knew what?"

"I'm gay, dude. You didn't know?"

Greg pauses for a moment then shrugs. "Texas, man."

"That's kinda prejudiced, Greg."

"You have the lamest country music collection ever, and Brass dresses better than you," Greg retorts.

"Pred-judiced," Nick sings.

It doesn't mean anything. Except that Nick would make an awesome wingman. He would totally twist his arm to go out except Lisa and he are on right now, on like on fire. His ass will be at least. Lisa has a new paddle.

Maybe it's the endorphins, but afterwards, he tells Lisa about Nick, while he's talking about secrets and Lisa being this goody-two-shoes kindergarten teacher in these cute little smock dresses and then biting down his thigh while he's all tied up and, Nick's name comes up.

Lisa thinks that's a really good idea.

Good enough to dump him unless he agrees.

Greg makes it three weeks before he gives in. Lisa keeps leaving him voicemails, and she's got this tiny lilt to her voice when she comes, and Greg thinks, what the hell.

The worst Nick can do is say no.

And he does. "You wanna have a threesome?" Nick manages, turning deep, deep red. Greg's kinda fascinated by the shade he's turning. "God, Greg."

"So, is that a yes?"

"No. No, no. That is such a bad idea. I'm gonna forget we had this conversation," Nick says firmly.

Lisa takes it out on him with hot wax and a candle that makes Greg a little uncomfortable the next day, but still - totally worth it.

Greg buys a Garth Brooks CD and leaves it on Nick's desk as an apology.

Lisa dumps him for a guy who likes to play horsie, and Greg goes through a Evanescence phrase which he is deeply embarassed about, but he renames all the tracks as Manson and keeps the volume low.

When the call comes in that Nick's missing, he's listening to Going Under. Nick is missing, someone says. Maybe it's Catherine. Maybe it's Sara. They're all talking.

Nick is missing.

Nick is missing again.

It's like deja vu, only it's worse. It's not the same as last time. They know what it feels like, and there's no pauses, no wondering. Every fucking punch and kick as the police calls come in and the evidence.

There's not much. Greg processes the scene with Catherine. There are six phone numbers scrawled on a notepad next to Nick's phone. His house is pristine. Books in neat stacks, clothes packed away. Nothing out of place. Just the truck gone. A shift missed. Phone dead. And Nick is missing.

It takes seventeen hours.

Warrick pulls the truck into the carpark with Nick asleep in the back, a jacket pulled over him. His left eye is swollen.

"Kelly had some friends," Warrick says quietly. "One of them was a guy Nick hooked up with."

Greg shakes Nick awake. His face looks different with the bruises and the sleep. Softer. His hair's mussed up and he doesn't say anything for a long while at first. "Hey," Greg murmurs. "Hey, Nick."

It's mid-morning and Greg thinks maybe it's the light coming through, shining straight into his eyes that makes him blink away tears. Maybe it's Nick breathing under Greg's hand. Alive.

I love this guy, he thinks. I love him. He leans forward and kisses Nick's brow, a dry press of his lips to smooth out the frown there. "You're okay," he says and Nick nods and closes his eyes again.

Warrick takes Nick home. Catherine and Greg close the file, and Brass takes them out for beers afterwards.

"We should chip him," Greg decides after his second beer. "A sub-dermal tracking chip. We can get Doc Robbins to do it for free."

"Not a bad idea," Catherine says and they clink their bottles together.

It's like the panties, he decides later on. He's wearing the black ones today and it's a Tuesday. He's just gotten used to them being there. Feels a little weird if he's not wearing them. And okay, maybe there are more than two pairs of panties in his drawers now. Internet plus alcohol equals Greg with a lapful of silky things.

Greg is all about owning his kinks these days. And the shop won't accept returns.

Greg likes what he likes, and maybe it's not just girls and their panties.

He watches Nick a lot. They all do, because Nick is on his third chance now. Warrick brings in cookies Tina made. Catherine gives Sara the jobs with kids or dark spaces. Grissom talks to Nick about the purity of insect mating rituals, which means something, but no-one can figure out exactly what. It's a little disturbing, especially the demonstration of the trapdoor spider and then the mantis.

Nick has impossibly broad shoulders that taper down to this narrow waist. He wears a faded school t-shirt loose one day and when he bends, it rides up showing the knobs of his spine, the jut of his hipbones. Greg looks for that strip of skin for the rest of the day, but Nick tucks his t-shirt back in.

The thing is, Greg is straight. He knows he's straight, the way a guy who did a lot of e in San Francisco knows he's straight.

Nick isn't straight. Nick is tall and broad-shouldered and good-natured and male. He has a broad jaw with stubble by the end of a double-shift. His hands are bigger than Greg's, with short flat nails and calloused palms.

Greg spends a lot of time looking at Nick's hands.

He's out of the shower getting dressed, and he's pulling on a pair in raspberry red. They've got a V of lace at the front, and the sides are slightly ruffled. He slides them up, puts himself in gently, and lets his hands rest on his hips, just under the elastic, thumbs hooked over them. His hands aren't as big as Nick's would be, but he closes his eyes and slides the panties down slowly. Very slowly. Touches himself.

He likes his dick. Likes the way it looks hard with the silk lace pushed down under, curls of hair nestled round and the heaviness of his balls still held in the panties. Likes sliding his hand up and down, slicking himself.

He leans back against the dresser, looks at himself in the mirror. He kicks it a little so it swings, cutting off his face. Just his body, with the lights dim. His hand wrapped round his dick, and he thinks about other dicks. Dicks in general. Dicks. Cocks. Someone else's dick. Nick's.

Touching someone else's dick. Not the friendly handjob, or the whole accidental group thing, but putting his hand out deliberately and wrapping it around Nick's dick. His brain kinda stutters at that, because Nick is - Nick is a stretch of tanned skin above a pair of faded jeans, broad gentle hands spread out on a table, the crinkles to his eyes when he smiles. He's not this, reddened flesh with a hand wrapped round it, pushing and shoving, hips snapping up against Greg's fingers, thrusting. Nick wouldn't be just this, a thick cock fisted up and up, hard and fast rubbing against Greg, pushing his panties down and those hands digging into his hips, maybe spreading his thighs apart and damnit. Greg comes, shaking and his panties are ruined.

He pulls on a pair of boxers.

Warrick goes home to Tina, and Catherine goes home to Lindsey, and no-one dares to ask where Sara and Grissom go. So Nick and Greg hit the sports bar, and they watch the game, but there's always a game, and Nick nurses a whiskey sour and starts talking about Frank.

Kelly's Frank. Frank with the soft brown hair and blue eyes, who worked as a vet's assistant and liked to watch old movies curled up on the couch and make out for hours. They were going slow, Nick said. Phone calls and lunch, couple of dinners. Nothing serious, but getting there. He was funny, and he didn't ask about Nick's job. Talked a lot about the weird animal stuff, kinda like Grissom, only warm. Sweet.

Frank with the ketamine and taser, Frank who Nick says he was kinda falling in love with. He doesn't look at Greg when he says that. Finishes his whisky sour and pulls his wallet out to pay.

Greg's hand shoots out and grabs Nick's wrist. "Nick -" he says and he can't finish. He wants to say fuck Frank, fuck Kelly and her dad, fuck them all, and stay here, don't go out of our sight again. Fuck the world that makes you look so broken, Nick. We love you.

"I'm wearing panties," he blurts instead.

Nick slides back into the booth. His mouth twitches. "I thought that was a rumor."

"Blue boy-cut," he says miserably. "With flower prints."

"Nice," Nick says. "Matching set?"

"No. Can we get another round?"

Nick signals the bartender and while they're waiting, Greg tips his head back and lets out a long sigh. "We are so fucked," he says. "Maybe it's Grissom. The day shift aren't so weird, are they?"

"I don't think Grissom wears panties," Nick points out.

"Thanks for that image. Really, thank you. You got any kinks?"

Nick licks his lips before he replies. His lower lip is wet and Greg's gaze catches on it. "I'm pretty vanilla, Greg."

Their drinks arrive and Greg stirs the ice in his with his finger. Sucks a drop off and then his finger, stirs it again. "Everyone's got a kink or two," he says. "I bet Ecklie likes to get spanked."

Nick laughs. "Man, no, just no. I like the regular things, you know. Kissing. Blow jobs."

Greg snorts. "You're a guy, I already knew that. What about dressing up? Ropes? Nipple clamps? Feather dusters?"

Nick's ears are bright red, but he smiles and sips his whisky. "I like legs," he says. "Thighs."

"And? That's like, the most boring kink ever. It doesn't even qualify. It's a preference at most."

"I like long moonlit strolls on the beach too," Nick says and Greg laughs and laughs because, damnit, Nick totally would.

Nick starts telling a long story about a murder in an indoor beach where the sand had been imported, and the bikini was the weapon. Greg listens but mostly, he's thinking that if he moves his legs just a little to the left, he'll be resting up against Nick's legs.

Nick pulls his truck to the kerb outside Greg's apartment. He taps his fingers against the steering wheel.

"Can I see?"

Greg scrubs at his eyes. "See what?" he asks before his brain catches up. "Oh. Ohh. Yeah, sure."

He has the button on his fly open and his hips lifted when he freezes again. He's yanking his pants down to show Nick his pretty little panties, and they're not exactly drunk but now he's getting hard.

He tugs his jeans down enough that the blue shows up. "Satisfied?" he asks.

Nick's hand drifts down from the wheel to hover just over Greg's hip. "Can I?" he asks and Greg nods. Nick extends a finger and traces the elastic edge. Greg's skin goosebumps under the touch.

"You can, you know."

"Mmm," Nick says without lifting his finger away. He slides another finger along the elastic, then under. Traces around the jut of Greg's hip bone and slides a little further down to the inward curve. The panties shift and slide, and Greg exhales as softly as he can. Silk across his cock, and there's the pull of denim above and the heat of Nick's fingers, the soft-rough texture of his fingers dragging down and down.

His fingers slide completely under the panties and his thumb brushes against Greg's pubic hair, brushes a little further but no matter how Greg twists, not far enough. Instead his fingers slide to the right and into the crease of his thigh. He bends his hand and Greg groans as the silk stretches against his swollen cock, and Nick rakes his fingernails up sharp and precise. Lets the elastic snap back and his hand is back on the steering wheel as though he never had it shoved down Greg's panties.

"See you tomorrow," he says.

Greg pulls his jeans up, pressing the heel of his hand down on his cock and trying not to look like he's seconds away from coming or that he's not completely buzzed from what Nick probably thinks is a friendly grope or something equally lame.

Maybe, Greg thinks, as he stumbles into his apartment, it was the panties. They are pretty.

He spends the next half hour picking out all his favourite panties and arranging them on his bed by preference. Then he starts trying to guess which ones Nick would like, and falls asleep on top of them.

Two weeks go by and Greg begins to relax. He's sort of seeing a photographer in that she gave him her number then called the next day with coffee and doughnuts and fucked him on his couch, licking powdered sugar off his fingers.

In the locker room, he's humming because court went well and the photographer called with lunch plans, so when Nick came in, he nods hi and goes back to sorting his bag out.

Then Nick is behind him, breath hot on the back of his neck and Greg's brain goes into the opposite of brain-freeze. Brain-melt? Electrical storm and all the blood rushing to where Nick's fingers are sliding inside Greg's waistband. "What are you wearing today?" Nick asks, his voice low and even. "What colour?"

Greg has to swallow before he can answer. "Cream," he says. "Uh, cream thong. With ribbons on the side."

Nick hooks his thumbs over Greg's jeans and slides his fingers down under and his hands are even bigger and warmer and more there, every fingerprint ridge branded into Greg's skin as his fingers spread over and span Greg's hips. The ribbons ride up and the thong pulls at Greg's ass, stretches back a little tighter and Greg is painfully, painfully hard.

"Nice," Nick says and tugs Greg's shirt back down over his jeans, hands skimming over Greg's crotch but not hard enough, not firm enough for anything but a shiver of desire.

Greg has sex with the photographer twice during lunch, promises to pin her down and ride her again harder if his phone doesn't go off while she's dragging her ankles up over his shoulders.

It's a limo pile-up with multiple DBs, and he forgets his panties when he's getting dressed because the photographer doesn't know about them, so he takes them off before the sex, and shoves them in a pocket, but now he's got himself caught commando in jeans and he just knows Grissom knows.

Grissom knows everything.

Greg really hopes that Grissom doesn't know about the blind spot in the minimart across from the intersection pile-up, because Nick does and the glass doors of the drinks cabinet is ice-cold but Nick's hand dipping down the back of his jeans, twisting around so his fingers spread across the curve of his ass, kneading and rubbing and then rising up to ghost over his pelvis and up under his t-shirt across his belly.

Greg is caught between wanting to lean into the cabinet, lean hard so he can grind back against the heat of Nick and force those hands back around him, and wanting to lean up against Nick and wrap himself up in Nick. Like a blanket he thinks, and maybe he says something because he can feel the curve of Nick's smile against his neck. "Nothing today, huh," he says and Greg nods hazily.

"You smell like sex," Nick whispers. "She know about the panties?"

Greg shakes his head and Nick makes a mm-mm hum against his throat. "Wear something tomorrow," he says. Then he lets go and Greg almost falls into the drinks cabinet.

Nick disappears after the second shift, and Greg thinks about begging out of team breakfast, but he's wired. He goes back to his apartment, he'll spend it looking through panties and jacking off, and he's starting to think maybe that's not the healthiest thing in the world.

This kink. And the fact that in forty-eight hours, he's had sex twice and been groped twice by Nick, and the groping was way hotter and all he can think about is Nick's hands and the way he smells. Not the really hot photographer. Or his job. Or maybe anything except panties and Nick and sex. Sex, panties, Nick. Nick, sex, panties. It's like a little song in his head, a high-def full colour pornographic song.

"Greg?" Sara waves a cup of coffee under his nose and Greg blinks back into focus.

"You buy lingerie?" he asks.

Sara looks at him cooly without saying anything.

"I mean, as a representative of the female gender, you buy undergarments, right?"

"Yes. If this is you asking what colour my panties are again, Greg, I will break your fingers."

"No, I mean, this thing with the lingerie. Are all guys really into that?"

Catherine takes pity on him when Sara makes a grab for his hand and Greg yelps and sits on them.

"Lingerie is like gift wrap, Greg. The fun is in taking them off."

"Well, yeah, but what about you know. The other side."

Sara wrinkles her forehead. "How many sides of underwear can you have? Are you talking about strap-ons?"

"God, no! Just forget it. Please, Sara, I don't want to think about Grissom and strap-ons."

"What does Grissom have to do with strap-ons?" she asks puzzled, and Catherine has given up and is laughing silently with her head on the table.

He goes back to his apartment and falls asleep on the couch, far away from the dresser drawer full of temptation. Capital T temptation.

In the afternoon, he makes a pot of coffee and thinks about burning the whole damn drawer. Getting a new hobby. He could get into feet. Feet are pretty. Or lesbians. They're unobtainable, right? Or he could get a gimp mask. He thinks about a nice zip to cover his face and a nice suit of vinyl.

He's on the edge of fucking up his career and all his friends. Nick is either fucking with him, or - he has no idea. Greg has no idea what is going on in Nick's mind because Nick doesn't do stuff like that. He's the kind of guy who buys hookers coffee and helps old ladies across the street and then plays with a guy's panties in public.

Greg really likes his job. He loves his job, he loves Las Vegas, and he loves Nick. Except he loves Nick like he loves Warrick, likes he loves Catherine and Mia and Sara and Grissom and oh god, he would totally bone every single one of them. Even Hodges he thinks.

He is so fucked.

He thinks about calling in sick, then about running away with the circus or to California or maybe Brazil. Then he pulls on a pair of boxers and gets his ass down to the station. Because Greg's mama didn't raise a coward. Just a transvestite slut.

They get a hit and run on a golf course - if you're really old, those golf carts can run you over it turns out - and Nick makes him comb the sand rough. He stands up top in his jeans and a white shirt with the jacket over it, looking fresh and clean-cut while Greg gets sand down his pants.

It takes Greg half an hour and a lot of yogic bending to get the sand out at the end of his shift. When he comes out, Nick is waiting for him in the locker room.

"Hey?" Greg says cautiously.

"I'll drive you back to your apartment," Nick says.

"I have a car," Greg points out. Water is trickling down his back onto the towel wrapped round his waist.

"No point both of us driving," Nick says.

"You're thinking ahead." Greg thinks he should say something more, but Nick is looking at him calmly and Greg can't think of anything he can say except maybe 'What the fuck is going on?' and 'Six months ago, I was straight.'

Greg drops the towel and Nick doesn't look away.

He pulls on boxers and pants, shoves his feet into socks and shoes and digs out a clean t-shirt from the pile in the locker.

"Okay," he says. "Let's go."

Nick's hand falls onto the small of Greg's back as they leave the locker room. His thumb rubs a circle there through the soft cloth.

Greg isn't sure what to expect. Bad porn means Nick would be pinning him to the door or maybe bending him over the kitchen table or dropping to his knees, and Greg is kinda freaking out here.

But Nick just steps into the apartment and puts his bag down near the couch. He heads into the kitchen. "Coffee?" he calls.

Greg toes off his shoes and hangs up his jacket. "Cupboard above the sink," he shouts. Then he collapses on the couch and tries really hard not to think about anything like Nick Stokes in his kitchen making coffee and his own hard-on.

Nick brings two mugs out and puts them on the coffeetable. Greg looks up at him suspiciously but Nick's got that same placid look he's been wearing since the locker room. He sips the coffee. It's sweet.

"Finished?" Nick asks and Greg nods and puts his empty cup down. Nick carries them out to the kitchen, and then he's behind Greg, his hand on Greg's shoulder just resting there and lifting him up somehow like he's a giant super-magnet and Greg's all crazy scatter of iron filings.

They go to the bedroom. It's quiet, this late at night, high up on the thirty-seventh floor. Greg likes his apartment, likes the black-out curtains and the air-conditioning, but right now it feels like he's floating in space. Weightless. Airless.

Nick pulls Greg's t-shirt up, over his head. Smoothes his hair back down. His face is serious now, intent. Looking at Greg like evidence. Something fascinating and strange. Something to be understood. He undoes Greg's jeans and when they slide down, he takes Greg's hand and tugs slightly so Greg steps out of them. He puts his hands on Greg's boxers and slides them down, and they fall past his knees, to this ankles. Greg takes another step closer to the bed. To Nick.

"Where do you keep them?" Nick says.

"Top drawer," he says and when Nick steps away, his fingertips are warm dots on Greg's skin. He thinks maybe if he looks down they would be glowing. That he is more naked than when he streaked the softball league tournament, then he's ever, ever been. Because Nick is standing at the dresser looking into it, and Greg realises that Nick still has his gun on. His CSI jacket. Sunglasses pushed up on the back of his head.

Greg's cold, and he rubs his arms. He's cold and naked and Nick is looking at his underwear drawer and seriously, this is so fucked up.

Then Nick unsnaps his holster. Puts the gun on top of the dresser. Sunglasses next to them. Pulls his t-shirt off over his head. Undoes his belt, rolls it up and puts it on top of the t-shirt. He's still looking at the drawer while he unzips his jeans and takes them off.

Then he's naked too, and Greg can't stop staring because Nick's ass is - he's seen it, they've shared showers and the locker room, but this is Nick naked in his bedroom which is completely different.

Nick turns around at last and he's completely hard and Greg cannot stop staring. What's the etiquette here? He *so* should have called up his friends from high school to ask because does he look or does he make eye contact, or is it maybe rude not to look, because that thing is huge.

"You got anything else I should know about?" Nick asks. He strokes himself and Greg can't look away from Nick's fingers wrapped around his dick, stroking up and down. His thumb rubs over the head and Greg swallows.

"Nothing," he says. "I mean, uh. What did you mean?"

Then Nick's standing in front of him and his eyes are crinkled and his teeth are white and then his mouth is on Greg's and he tastes of coffee and tongue and spit and Greg can feels the wet slide of Nick's cock against his hip, and Nick's hand slides down onto Greg's cock, and he kinda wants to see. But that would mean not kissing Nick and Nick is kissing him like he wants to fuck him with his tongue. Greg's a big fan of kissing. Kissing with stubble and hands on cocks, and Greg's head could explode any minute, because Nick's teeth graze down Greg's throat and he has to grab Nick's shoulders or fall.

"You need me to tie you up? Spank you?" Nick murmurs.

"This is good," Greg says breathlessly. "This is good. Just you."

Nick's palm goes down over Greg's chest, sliding rough over a nipple, circling and then his fingernails raking lightly so Greg arches up, and then down, the heel of his hand down his belly so his finger catches at Greg's bellybutton and Greg gasps a little. Nick traces his bellybutton again and again and it's dizzying, heat pooling and sparking under his touch and Greg moans a little more and then Nick sinks down on his knees and starts tonguing Greg's bellybutton, his hands pinning Greg in place so his cock is just brushing Nick's jaw, and there's wet heat at his belly, rasping and liquid and hot.

"I thought it was the panties," he says when he can suck in enough breath to speak. Nick looks up through his lashes, the tip of his tongue tracing Greg's pelvis. "Then I thought maybe I was like Stockholm Syndrome, except you're the one that keeps getting, and then I just thought maybe it was the co-worker thing, or maybe your hands, oh fuck -" Nick is tonguing the stretch of his inner thigh, and Greg arcs under the long sweep of his tongue, and when Nick's fingers dive into the back of Greg's knee, he shivers and his legs part helplessly and it's only Nick's hand sure and strong around his calf, his arm around his back, that keeps him upright while Nick licks the length of his thigh, his teeth against the tendon and Greg whimpers.

"I like the panties," Nick says as he lowers Greg onto the bed. "Like watching you bend over and a little flash of colour, knowing it's silk or something. Stretch of it over your ass." He's kneeling over Greg now, rubbing the long hot length of his cock against Greg's belly, against his thighs, finally oh fuck, finally, against Greg's cock and Greg would be coming right now if he weren't so strung out on sensation that he can't move.

"Just the panties?" Greg asks in small broken gasps.

Nick rests his forehead against Greg's and there's this look that makes everything strange so familiar again, affection and warmth, and Greg grins back at him.

"You fishin', Sanders?"

Greg wriggles up a little and Nick's eyes flutter shut for an awesome, awesome moment. Because Greg can make Nick look sexed out too. And sexed out like Nick's about to come apart, and Greg does it again, that wriggle, and then Nick growls and starts to thrust and kisses him hard and Greg tonguefucks him because he's fucking him and it's not like sex he's ever had, because nothing is going anywhere the way he sort of thought things would go - this is like being at second base and hitting a home run at the same damn time and Nick thrusts and comes and it's incredibly weird. Greg puts his hand down over Nick's cock and runs his fingers through the wet gunk there, and it's slick and hot and kinda like liquid starch to play with. Nick grabs his hand before he starts finger painting with it and brings their hands down to Greg's dick, and that's all it takes. Nick's hand on his on Greg's cock, and Nick's whispering "Come on, you can do it, come on Greg," that tips him into a white-out haze.

"I thought it was the panties," he says again later. He's wiped his hand on the bedspread and he's sorta spooned up against Nick which is another weird but good weird too. Nick makes a mm-mm sound but doesn't open his eyes. "Then I thought it was some kink. Like a you kink, a Nick kink."

Nick shifts a little, settles his leg over Greg's, pinning him down. He puts his hand on Greg's face, traces his mouth. Greg can smell himself, smell Nick mixed in. It makes him want to have sex again, and it makes him kinda want to run away to Brazil even more, but Nick's leg is heavy over him and he can do this. He takes a deep breath.

"I think it's just you."

Nick smiles and rests his hand against Greg's throat, his finger against Greg's pulse. Greg can feel his heartbeat pressing up against Nick's fingertip. "Just you," Nick agrees.


End file.
